The wanton lover in a curious strain And with quaint metaphors her curled hair Thou art my loveliness, my life, my light, Thy bloody death, and undeserved, makes Thee When all perfections as but one appear, The very dust, where Thou dost tread and go, Where are my lines then? my approaches? views? Where are my window-songs? Lovers are still pretending, and e'en wrongs Sharpen their muse. But I am lost in flesh, whose sugar'd lies Sure Thou didst put a mind there, if I could I Lord, clear Thy gift, that with a constant wit What angel, fit? LOVE-JOY. As on a window late I cast mine eye, Of Joy and Charity. Sir, you have not miss'd, PROVIDENCE. O SACRED Providence, Who from end to end Of all the creatures both in sea and land, And made him secretary of Thy praise. Beasts fain would sing; birds ditty to their notes; mute. Man is the world's high priest: he doth present The sacrifice for all; while they below Unto the service mutter an assent, Such as springs use that fall, and winds that blow. He that to praise and laud Thee doth refrain, But robs a thousand who would praise Thee fain, The beasts say, eat me; but, if beasts must teach, The tongue is yours to eat, but mine to praise. The trees say, pull me ; but the hand you stretch Is mine to write, as it is yours to raise. Wherefore, most sacred Spirit, I here present We all acknowledge both Thy power and love Who dost so strongly and so sweetly move, For either Thy command or Thy permission Lay hands on all; they are Thy right and left: The first puts on with speed and expedition; The other curbs sin's stealing pace and theft. Nothing escapes them both: all must appear, And be disposed, and dress'd, and tuned by Thee, Who sweetly temper'st all. If we could hear Thy skill and art, what music would it be ! any: Thou art in small things great, not small in Tempests are calm to Thee; they know Thy hand, And hold it fast, as children do their father's, Which cry and follow. Thou hast made poor sand Check the proud sea, e'en when it swells and gathers. Thy cupboard serves the world: the meat is set Where all may reach: no beast but knows his feed. Birds teach us hawking; fishes have their net; The great prey on the less, they on some weed. Nothing engender'd doth prevent his meat; Flies have their table spread, ere they appear; Some creatures have in winter what to eat ; Others do sleep, and envy not their cheer. How finely dost Thou times and seasons spin, And make a twist checker'd with night and day! Which, as it lengthens, winds, and winds us in, As bowls go on, but turning all the way. Each creature hath a wisdom for his good. Bees work for man; and yet they never bruise Their master's flower, but leave it, having done, As fair as ever, and as fit to use: So both the flower doth stay, and honey run. Sheep eat the grass, and dung the ground for more: Trees, after bearing, drop their leaves for soil: Springs vent their streams, and by expense get store: Clouds cool by heat, and baths by cooling boil. Who hath the virtue to express the rare And if an herb hath power, what have the stars? Thou hast hid metals: man may take them thence; But at his peril: when he digs the place, |